


Would My Every Prayer Begin and End with Just Your Name?

by summers_honey_breath



Category: Fleabag (TV), Fleabag (TV) RPF
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Romance, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Wish Fulfillment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2020-05-29 12:59:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19400809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summers_honey_breath/pseuds/summers_honey_breath
Summary: On a whim, Stepmother insists on a yearly renewal of wedding vows, and Dad has neither the heart nor the energy to refuse her.  Beyond finding this utterly ridiculous, Fleabag couldn’t find herself caring less.  That is until The Priest is called upon to officiate the ceremony.





	1. Preface

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DinnerandDiatribes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DinnerandDiatribes/gifts).



> I need this. I think a lot of us need this. Please enjoy.

You know that feeling when you’ve fallen in love with someone, truly fallen in love with someone—for the _first_ God damn time in your miserable life—and it’s been an impossible situation from the start? So impossible that the very thought still turns you on, far more than Obama’s forearms and speeches ever could? So impossible that at times you try to convince yourself that, one day, you _will_ move on. Because you have to. Because he—a man sworn to God, some non-existent deity with an ever-lengthening, ever-thickening stick up his ass—told you “it’ll pass.” That this love, once you’ve felt it—for the _first God damn time_ in your life—will pass.  
Even though you know that’s a load of shit. A load of shit that he piled on top of you when he said it, a load of shit that you keep heaping onto yourself when you try to convince yourself—half-heartedly, in vain—that you really must move on?  
But you won’t. And you can’t. Because you know what you want. You know what you need. And what _will_ you do, since you’ve never been able to resist temptation? When there’s no way in hell, after more than a year, that you could forget what you want?  
Well, you know what you’ll do, don’t you? You’ve always known.


	2. Chapter 2

Claire’s face was bright, a brightness to which Fleabag had yet to grow accustomed. Just two years past, she might have asked what was wrong, tried to evade a hug—or impending threat!—with clumsy yet catlike reflexes, thus injuring her sister in the process. But Claire was clearly happy. Glowing, really—black hair lustrous, now sweeping her clavicle, roses in her cheeks, though even roses seemed too common a flower to describe what trimmed those fine-boned features. “You look fantastic,” said Fleabag, slicking a scone with lemon curd. She took a bite and continued, through a torrent of crumbs, “Pre-nant?”  
Claire frowned over the lip of her teacup. “I am with child, yes,” she said primly, then smiled. Just a little. “I’d have liked to have told you before you couldn’t stop yourself from blurting it out.”  
“Well, I’ve never seen you look so good. You’re positively fucking radiant. What else could it be? Botox? A facelift and copious amounts of blush?”  
“Oh, enough of that. This is the happiest moment of my life!”  
“How far along?”  
“Six weeks.”  
“Have you told anyone else? Klare?” Fleabag swallowed a laugh.  
“No, he’s in Sweden right now. I didn’t want to wait or do it over a call.” Again, that little smile. “Besides, I wanted to tell you first.”  
Fleabag’s heart swelled. “I…thanks, Claire. Really. And congratulations. I don’t suppose you’ll name it after the mother or the father?”  
“You’re incorrigible!”  
“And don’t I know it.”  
“I…I actually thought we’d name it—I mean, him or her—after you.” Claire cleared her throat, took another dainty sip of tea. “It’s a unisex name, after all, and well…”  
Fleabag’s heart almost exploded. “Claire, you don’t have to do that. Really, you don’t.”  
“I know I don’t have to. But I _want_ to, alright?”  
“Alright.”

“This is my body, which shall be given up for you…This is my blood, the blood of the new and everlasting covenant, which shall be shed for you and for…Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy…Peace be with you…All rise…Please, be seated….A reading from the book of….Thank you, Pam, that’s really helpful. I really do think the candles will be fine, but it can’t hurt to check, can it? Go on, then. I won’t keep you. Good woman.”  
On and on The Priest went, through the humdrum motions of clerical life. Day in and day out, back and forth and forth and back. A dizzying, nauseating affair, one which had once given him peace, purpose as a father of many.  
That night, as with all nights, he lay in bed alone, the cot hard and unyielding beneath him. Not like hers. That cloud-soft, queen-sized confection of down pillows and well-loved cotton sheets. A duvet made to cocoon two into one.  
On that night, all those months ago, he’d not slept in such a bed in years. He’d not slept in such a bed since. How could he, how dare he, when she and God—and she and God alone—warred with each other in his mind? That formless, apparently benevolent yet absent father figure. That woman with her quick wit and cheeky smile—a woman, tangible and warm and brilliant, who would always make her presence known.  
Even in her absence, he felt it. He felt her. The only woman he’d ever loved. The only woman he’d ever craved beyond the temptation of carnal pleasures—which really was such a biblically shite way to think about it. Oh, fuck it all.  
Sex. Yes, he wanted sex. Again. With her. Always her. Of course.  
More than that, he wanted her. He’d venture to say that he needed her. Loved her. Of course.  
Tucking a fist into the pillow, he groaned into the mattress. _Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned_ , he thought, may well have groaned. The cot squeaked as he moved with each word.  
In this dark room, he was the only person who could potentially absolve himself of sin. But not _technically_. He’d need a proper priest, a priest far more proper than he.  
And yet he craved no forgiveness, no penance. And would find no more peace. Not like this. Not in this life.

Eleventh months had passed them swiftly by, each season but a change of winds and hues and tingles on the skin. All the while, Fleabag had experienced no shortage of Stepmother’s antics.  
A request for a nude portrait of Fleabag and her guinea pig, to which the former had responded, “Would it be quite alright if only one of us is nude? Hilary’s far more comfortable with her body than I, though I do have this ‘lovely, thick neck,’ as you once put it. Oh, and then there are my tits. Or lack thereof, see?” to which the latter had responded with a thoroughly adorable purr of accord. “Hers too. None to speak of.”  
Both received only a _tut-tut-tut_ in response. No further insistence, no demands, just a placid, smiling expression that belied Stepmother’s urge to scream something along the lines of, “You bloody fucking cunt! You and your bloody fucking rat!”—she’s a guinea pig, love—or something condescending and passive-aggressive, followed by a kiss of fingertips lifted to the cheek.  
Not everyone’s cup of tea, indeed, though she brewed a damn brilliant cuppa.  
Odd, that she should be so irritable despite her intention to renew her vows with Dad. Though it was a ceremony, it wasn’t a wedding. Not so much pressure this time, right?  
“One more month, my dear,” said Stepmother, with a flourish of her paintbrush. “Do you think you’ll wear something a bit more…proper this time? Red really isn’t your color, I’m afraid. You might try a different shade of lipstick while you're at it. Some sort of darker, neutral pink, perhaps? You've got such fine thin lips, my dear. No need to draw further attention.”  
“All duly noted,” said Fleabag, running through her wardrobe in her mind. Blacks. Lots of greys. Whites. More blacks. A splash of color here and there. A pattern or two. Stripes on stripes on stripes. That dress had been fine. And her red lipsticks were fucking fantastic. All one and a half of them.  
“And do you know,” Stepmother went on, swirling the brush on her palette with reckless abandon. “I’ve decided our dear priest simply must officiate. This time and every year. What d’you think of that, darling? Marvelous idea, isn’t it?”  
Fleabag coughed and sputtered, tea showering her chest in scalding drops.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm entirely rushing through this just to get to the happy ending my brain demands. I'll save the perfectionism and literary masterpieces for non-urgent topics.

Her first instinct was to bolt. Sweden. She could go to Sweden, right now, leaving none the wiser—save for Klare, probably. And Claire, eventually. That could work. Perhaps. She’d never been before. Did adventure await?  
In theory, she could go anywhere, couldn’t she? The coward’s way out wasn’t contingent on specificity. Tuscany was supposedly beautiful this time of year. She’d always craved a Parisian lover. _Oh, Gérard, walk with me along the Seine, then fuck me like mad back at the hostel, because that’s all I can afford and I’m too proud to renounce my independence and move in with you, you beautiful, beautiful man_ …  
Her second instinct was to pack: clothes, toiletries, guinea pig, hamster, leftover pastries, _then_ bolt. No sense starting a new life with nothing but the clothes on your back, even if they were remarkably stylish. Right? Right.  
Good God, had she ever wanted to run so far?  
“My dear, you look dreadfully pale,” Stepmother was saying. “Are you unwell?”  
Fleabag made a moue with her mouth, lips a twist of crimson. “Fine. I’m fine. Erm, I’m just…going to go.”  
Thus she slipped from the room with nary a goodbye and rushed headlong down the stairs, a hurricane sweeping out of the house and into the empty street. Had she the stamina, she would have kept going. But her breaths came in strangled gulps and her legs quivered like a fawn’s.  
Almost a year and she’d long since reconciled with reality—or what had seemed like reality up until now. Heartbreak. Loneliness. Emptiness. Finding a way forward. Achieving a modicum of peace, though she’d tucked the painful shreds of memory into the back of her mind, never to be abandoned. There were some things you just didn’t want to forget. Couldn’t forget for all the world.  
Fleabag plucked the phone from her pocket and tapped a frenzied staccato on the screen. “Did you know?” she said.  
“Know what?” said Claire.  
“About The Priest.”  
“What about him?”  
“He’s officiating.”  
“Oh.”  
“Yeah.”  
“I would’ve told you. You know that.”  
“I know. Sorry.”  
“All right?”  
“Yeah.”  
Long, tapered fingers combed through breeze-tangled hair. Fleabag massaged her temples, exhaled through her nose.   
For a moment, her own thoughts ceased to matter.

The thing is, sacramental wine isn’t holy until it’s blessed—and watered down profusely. It’s just wine. Either way, whatever the purpose, it’s made for one to drink. This is a fact.  
The Priest had run out of G&T’s and didn’t much feel like making the trek to the store. So he drank and languished a little and soured his tongue with the Unofficial Blood of Christ. Just a few swigs, achieving the Buzz of Christ. He needed to clear his head. Or cloud it. He couldn’t decide which.  
Officiate a renewal of vows. Sure, why not? Easy enough. He knew all the words, the prayers, the pretty turns of speech, how to charm the crowd, should he or they so desire. But why did it have to be _them_?  
He took another swig, pursed his lips, and whistled into the neck of the bottle. It was a hollow, lonely sound.  
There wasn’t much he could do, other than refuse outright. But what kind of priest would he be if he did so again? Repeating past mistakes was, to an extent, part and parcel of being human. Would he count this among them?  
As ever, he wondered: had it been a mistake to choose God? Was this His way of testing him?  
The Priest shook his head, swilled to the bitter dregs. Drinking made him far too pseudo-moralistic. He was, in fact, rather inclined to officiate, if only to see her again.   
And if this _was_ a test, it was one to which he subjected himself—one which he was quite miserably, quite masterfully failing.  
Yet though the empty bottle would suggest otherwise, he found that he did not mind it so much.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all! Been dealing with a wee bit of writer's block of late. Here's a little tidbit I just spat out, and I promise I'm still working on the rest of the story. Please enjoy and do not hesitate to let me know what you think.
> 
> I'm always open to and grateful for feedback. In particular, any suggestions as to where you'd like to see this story go (my scatterbrained ass is just winging it) or what sort of specific scenes/interactions you might like to see before I get down to the fun sexy times.
> 
> Anyway, as always, thank you all for reading. It means the world to me that people enjoy my writing. Feel free to message me any time. My social anxiety subsides a little when I find common ground with and get to know people.
> 
> P.S. I'm currently drunk and giving in to my propensity for verbosity. Apologies. Gonna be doing a bit of editing later.
> 
> Anyway, love y'all, stranger pals! Hope you're all doing well.

Three days prior to the ceremony she watched the church from afar, wading through a veritable river of humanity, eyes trained on the great stone edifice as her legs moved of their own volition. At times they bade a brisk pace, for her nerves were frayed, sparking, jumping like a live wire. Yet in one’s mind there exists no red to red, yellow to yellow, white to white—or however the fuck any of that works; she wasn’t an electrician.  
Her hands were wracked with tremors—a mix of joy and dread. On and on, without cease they fluctuated, fighting for dominance, as if one could trounce the other. More fools they.  
How strange it was, that she should opt to tackle such troubles head-on, eschewing sex as a means of coping and avoidance. Indeed, how strange it was to return to a place she’d once held dear—perhaps even loved, for the sake of another. Stranger still was that she’d looked upon the prospect with far more joy than trepidation, though both had sought to war her heart.  
The wind kissed and swept the roses from her cheeks. She looked up, shielding her eyes from the white-gold disk of the sun. Clouds scudded along the azure arch of the sky, tatters of white, spun sugar torn and carelessly smeared across the heavens.  
Suddenly a figure clad in green vestment snagged her peripheral vision. It slipped from the church, borne by a surge of parishioners. At a distance, the figure seemed only wisp of memory—ephemeral in the way of half-remembered dreams, which soon slip the mind.  
She made a sharp turn, took one step forward, then another, crossing the street. The figure remained where it was. Solid. Corporeal. Real.  
The Priest was smiling, shaking hands, shepherding his flock back into the day. Fleabag was close enough now that she could relish the soft, lyrical lilt of his voice, admire the clerical garb in all its gleaming, gold-embroidered glory. She remained where she was, frozen in place until the last of the parishioners departed.  
She called out his name.  
When she finally plucked up the courage to look at him, a diffident smile curved his lips.  
He then slipped into the church, gestured that she should follow and said, “It was inevitable, wasn’t it?”  
“Obviously.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to add more to this chapter, but I thought I'd post what I have so far (though it's not much) just to see what you guys think, maybe what you'd like to see happen next.
> 
> Thank you all for being so patient. I'm trying to come back and write regularly again!

Silence reigned for millennia, or so it seemed, for they stood simply looking at each other—mere feet and yet worlds apart, such was the rift that time and grief had slashed between them.  
The office was far messier than the last time Fleabag had seen it, with even more books crammed cheek by jowl in shelves already fit to bursting, and heaped perilously high on every available surface. Errant papers littered the floor like feathers shed from a dozen flocks of birds, scored with smudged typeface and illegible, hastily scrawled annotations. An empty bottle of wine had rolled under the desk, its clear, dark green neck peeking out from beneath.   
Fleabag toed it with her boot. Glass thumped a single, hollow beat against worn wood, striking something just as heavy, but fuller, beneath. At the rustle and crinkle of a plastic bag, she crouched down and crawled half-under the desk. G&T cans.  
She might have laughed. She might have cried. Instead, she scurried back a little, then sat back on her haunches, clutching the drinks to her chest, cylinders of ice against her heart, despite the layers of wool, cotton, flesh, and bone—four barriers against viscera—which ought to have protected her. “What, did you know I was coming?” she said, half-joking, half-hopeful, perhaps even a little narcissistic.  
Chuckling, the Priest came to kneel beside her, just far enough away that their legs wouldn’t touch. “I never know, I’ve never known, but I’ve always hoped,” he said. “Since that last time, I always hoped. Against all sense, against my better fucking judgment. You know how it is. You know I…You know how I felt. Feel.”  
Fleabag extracted two cans from the bag. They cracked them open, raised and clinked a toast to nothing in particular, and drank deep.   
“Nothing’s changed with me,” she said. “No one new, nothing new, things better with the family. _Loads_ better. I’d say I’m just about fucking happy for the first time in my life…” She paused, nipped her lip, red staining a pearl-white tooth. “I was okay. I think I really was, for the most part. Things have been good. _I’ve_ been good, or at least on the way to becoming a modicum of good. Self-loathing, self-destructive behaviors and all that. Hard habits to break. You know how it is. And you know how I feel. I never stopped. Loving you, that is.”  
“I know. Neither did I.”


End file.
